


look how i remember

by harryanthus



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Actor Harry Styles, Actor Louis Tomlinson, Alternate Universe, Body Image, Character Study, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Sex, Inner Dialogue, M/M, notes for more tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29540529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryanthus/pseuds/harryanthus
Summary: He hates it, he wants to scream and tell Harry as much.Kiss me like you mean it. Kiss me as if we are in love. Kiss me like you will never do it again. Kiss me with so much hatred that it turns back to love.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	look how i remember

**Author's Note:**

> heavily deals with body issues and often times louis wishes his body was not _his_ be careful about that pls!! there are mentions of sex but it is not explicit
> 
> title from mitski’s 'why didn't you stop me'

Louis feels the outline of his body in the dark.

He feels the rise and fall of his stomach, the curve of his waist, the way their pale yellow sheets are tucked around his waist, hair probably soaked with sweat, lips parted and pink and chapped, the small of his back holding pooled sweat that will soak through the blankets.

He feels them more than he sees them. He doesn’t need to see — the image, the shape, the hard edges, the imperfections — they are burned into his mind, all fog soft shadows, and charcoal dark light, and honeyed glow.

Harry shifts in his sleep, snuffling, a puff of sour, warm air, body curling into his back, nose pressing into the thin skin of his jaw and neck. He tries to find something to express the emotion swelling in him.

There are never enough letters, no combination of letters — all twenty six alphabets of English, they are not enough, they are never. They fall short to make up a word to encompass the feeling. Too wide for him, too big to be trapped in his cage of ribs.

He closes his eyes and pretends like he can sleep. He tries to dream, a dream where the touching is so much more, where he has a voice he can use, a voice that is his and a touch that he likes.

He does fall asleep somewhere between pretending and being real. He wishes for a dream, one, two, three, the lights go out and they stay that way.

They — their entwined bodies, the sour breaths, cold toes and clicking ankles.

No dreams come to him.

+

Harry had always woken up earlier, his hold just a phantom, ghost of his warmth held in the sheets, dried drool on his nape, steam fogged mirrors in the bathroom, a ring of water on the counter under a rinsed mug, a little dish soap on the granite of the sink.

Louis’ breath is sleep stale and dry, lips cracking painfully, the dehydration reflected by the paleness of his mouth, tender purple bruised skin under his blues, an itch starting under his joggers, skin cold bitten and ashy white.

The silence is too much, it rings in his ears, makes paranoia curl itself just beneath his tongue.

It is bitter and tastes like zinc supplements.

He wants to call Harry and demand that he come back, hold him a minute longer, just until he can breathe without all of his bones aching.

He refrains himself from doing so.

He brushes his teeth and drinks a glass of water, the water tastes sharp — he fills it up again, drinks half of it, cheeks bulged, still not swallowing. The sharpness slowly ebbs away.

He dumps the other half in a kettle. Harry always throws away the water when they come back in the evening.

The shower tiles are still dewy, vapour condensed mirrors, the tangy scent of oranges, thick oils and something icy hangs to the dew. It makes his eyes tear up and gloss his vision.

He stands under the shower for a long time, pretending like the hands rubbing soap and dragging the loofah across his body are not his but Harry’s, like the fingers massaging his hair have pale marks without the rings, knuckles red from boxing, a cross tattoo nestled between the space of index finger and thumb.

Once he got high with a friend and she told him how she grew into and out of her body, both breaking and fixing, destruction and creation simultaneously occuring, creating a ruin of a self to call art, a location and something more.

Louis wants to crack himself open and watch himself, watch himself being stuck back together, maybe pieces arranged differently, maybe a new version where his body is _his_ fully.

He flicks off hair from his face, dark and heavy, rivulets dripping down his neck, his nape, his shoulders. Some of it gets into his ears — his hearing goes fuzzy.

They don’t pop yet — his ears, still blocked with warm water turning cold to vapour to nothing.

With careful fingertips he strokes the curve of his jaw, presses his thumb to the hinge and pushes in, feeling the network inside.

Louis wishes the touch was _not_ his. 

His eyes shut, the beads of cold water on his eyelashes run down his cheeks, a few linger on the arch of his cheekbone, glittering like they do on a polished stone.

His hands are still his when he opens his eyes.

+

“Lou,” he breathes his name in a hushed whisper, reverent and sweet.

If he closes his eyes and tilts his head up to the overhead lights, he can feel the ache lessen down, the frantic buzzing in his ears mute, every cell in him alive.

The mouth on his is warm and wet and is licking into his, soft sighs melting like spun sugar on his tongue. He tastes like hours old black coffee, spices and _Harry_.

“Lou,” he says again, spit slick lips, a little puffy, a little red, eyes brighter than all the lights, twinkling, resembling a slow, mellow mantra.

He wants to get down on his knees to worship him. It’s a thing where they both act like the other is a god.

God would not be so fucked, Louis bitterly thinks every single time.

Harry raises a hand to cup his jaw and Louis hisses — there it is, there is the touch he was longing for — surging forward and kissing him _again_ , his tongue heavy, tears building up behind his lids.

He wants to crumble and let the pent up tension bleed out and out and out until he is empty and can fill out himself with love and not shame and need.

They pull apart to breathe, his chest’s rise and fall is harsh, his throat is closed up with all the words he is biting back, his hands swallowed in clothes that are not his, the air between their bodies shaking his bones.

His body does not feel like his without Harry filling up the spaces. Their bodies fit together better than Louis can hope he fits in his alone.

“You’re wearing my clothes,” Harry slowly drawls, mouth curving into an endeared smile, dimples appearing, the little heart shaped freckle on his chin moving up.

Louis blinks, trying to see what he sees that lights up his face like _that_.

He knows how he looks in them, small, fragile, _needy_. He is all of them only for Harry.

Only for Harry. _Only for Harry._

“I am,” he replies, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, the fabric slippery, his palms sweaty.

His arms are solid and warm around the sides of his neck, long fingers combing through the tangles, metal cold and starkly contrasting to his burning skin. They have swallowed the sun and there is light in them, waiting to escape.

“You look lovely. You always do,” he murmurs, leaning in and pressing his lips just below his ear, giving him everything he had wanted in the early hours.

His voice is not to be trusted and so he doesn’t speak. He lets himself be held in a much bigger embrace, a steady pulse under his ear.

His ears pop.

_This is what dreams are made of._

When they are like this, he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind that he is in the same flesh, the same body, that he is the same.

He dreams.

+

They are shooting a film, Harry and he, they are the love interests in the film and it still reduces him to a puddle of awe and nerves whenever he sees Harry Styles the actor.

His knees are weak and he is being moved around, arms and screams and lights everywhere. The music begins a breath earlier and he is trying to catch up but his mouth refuses and his lips are sealed, the music continues but he is not lip syncing.

It might be a musical, he’s not sure. He can’t remember over the roar of blood in his ears and pulse on his tongue.

The director is frustrated and it is directed at him — his lips quirk at the thought — and the cameraman glares at him, the orchestra is tired of playing it over and over and over again.

He hangs his head for a minute, he feels the heat of the lights, so many lights, he feels his throat go lax, painted lips moving, the cameras are rolling again — he can act again.

He hides behind the microphone, he tilts his head around, he holds the stand, the steps around it. He does everything he can to match the movements of another pair of lips doing the same across him, glittering green eyes filled with pure joy.

Harry in his silver suit glides across the set up dias with ease and grace, moving as though he were solely made for the stage, step sure, none of his actions an afterthought.

He sometimes wishes it was easy for him to get lost in the character like Harry does and still be true to himself. A flare of envy licks his heart.

He’s always struggled with controlling that.

He lived and became his character and in moments between scenes, he tries, he tries and tries and tries to reach out and touch Harry and bask in his safety but his character is destined to doom so he deprives himself of that little bit of affection, tiniest bit of glow so he tastes the ache in his blood.

The curtains fall, Louis is still pretending.

There is a sex scene right after the singing that they are supposed to play.

Both of them are half naked and oiled up, shimmering under the chandelier, his body softened, curves made more prominent while they try and erase Harry’s, to turn him into gold.

His character doesn’t allow him to return back the exasperated grin.

It isn’t odd. Their bodies mould, they fit whatever the boxes they are thrown in — they make it fit.

His shoulders are dusted with more bronzer, glitter covering them. He feels ethereal and untouchable for a long exhale.

There is a certain intimacy between them that is not put on, it comes to him naturally. He’s never been good at hiding his moony eyes for Harry — he never wants to be.

He is so gone for him.

Maybe one day he will finally find words that will be enough to tell him so.

He finds glitter speckled thoughts floating in his head.

+

The film is a mess, it is a pile of mauve thoughts and sparkle and shine and polished shoes and moonlit canopies and dry lilies floating along with duckweed and Louis and Harry with their glimmering irises.

They shoot a sex scene, they move the way they are told to move, an act of passion burning down to an act. Just an act and nothing more, nothing less.

He hates it, he wants to scream and tell Harry as much. _Kiss me like you mean it. Kiss me as if we are in love. Kiss me like you will never do it again. Kiss me with so much hatred that it turns back to love._

He doesn’t though, that is the issue, this Harry — the character he is playing — he doesn’t love Louis like he wants to he loved. He has no love to give him but he is still scratching at the bottom of the empty pool trying to break the grey tiles and scoop out love from the solidified concrete.

There is none.

He realises that on the third take, their oily bodies slipping against each other, Harry’s hand devoid of the rings, his knuckles white and not red, his mouth is biting and not kissing, they are moving and fucking but there is no emotion behind their movements.

His character only looks good when he is in him, his flesh and bone nothing but an aggregation of cells, an empty shell waiting to be filled and Louis wears the skin too well. He fills out every odd hollow, every tight corner.

He is good at it.

On their sixth take with a shadow looming over him, as the scent of clean sweat and cosmetics fills his senses, his eyes helplessly watch the hand that goes up to tangle in product tamed strands of the man Harry is playing.

With a sense of sick satisfaction he realises — his hands are not his anymore.

+

They give up on getting the sex scene right on that day.

There is a ballroom dance instead.

He sits on a cushioned stool with pins holding scraps of fabric together, make up half washed off, the body oil and glitter stuck to his skin, maybe inside his mouth too.

Harry is dressed to the nines, curls left loose and silky, falling over his shoulders, dimple carved in his left cheek, lips darker, pinker, face softer. His shirt has ruffles, his boots are shiny, his fingers are adorned with rings — he looks like his Harry.

The one he falls asleep with, the one who fogs their bathroom mirrors and gets water on the closed toilet lid.

Behind the set, ten minutes to East is a small pond with waterlilies. It’s his favourite place to hide when his mind becomes unbearable.

Louis’ shirt has blue roses done in thread. He imagines the petals between his teeth. Whether they will stain his mouth and tongue the same blue as his soul.

The director crows something and his train reaches a station.

His eyes are trained on the camera, he is staring at the lens, he can fuzzily see his outline but there is something gigantically off about the minute.

The dialogues, the words, they drip off his tongue but he is still floating, trying to find that errant strand of consciousness to tie him back into the scene but his hands are clouds and his fingers are clouds and everything is slipping past him.

He feels a pair of glassy, bottle green eyes focus on him.

He knows, Harry knows, they both know the exact moment he falters in his delivery and is going to burst into tears — they both realise it a second before he actually does, fat teardrops sliding down his cheeks, a strange hysteria gripping his intestines, wispy fingers of mania snaking themselves across his stomach, trying to wring his lungs like a sponge and make him crumple down into nothing but a sack of bones and muscles and fat.

The need is so visceral, it knocks the air out of him, his eyeballs are somehow both dry and wet and they burn. Goddamn it burns and he is still standing with his face turned to the camera.

“Sorry!” Louis throws behind him, feet moving already, misery clogging him, _run run run_ , his mind taunts and he does.

_Sorry, sorry, sorry. I am sorry, sorry is I._

He sprints out of the set, the director is yelling and screaming and causing a ruckus behind, there are frantic assistants trying to right everything Louis had tipped down and made a mess of, Harry trying to untangle himself from all the people and follow him.

He runs to the pond and watches the lilies float and their leaves touch. In a while the moon will appear high in the star speckled sky, clouded with pollution and his own devastation and he will go watch the reflection, will feel the light on him, this time colder, more lovelier, and it will let him breathe.

Harry does find him and he says nothing, his silence speaks volumes.

“Baby,” he calls and Louis goes into his arms, lets himself be held and be treated like he is a thing that is ruined.

He is someone who is ruined.

Harry kisses him, under the polluted sky, near the dirty water, his mouth tasting of mints and worry, hands moving like they are searching for his secrets, patting him down as though he has hidden them under his skin.

He kisses and moans and tongues as if he wants to swallow Louis’ heart and keep it safe in his throat.

Louis is tired. He is needy.

He lets his heart crawl into his mouth and leaves it in the cave of Harry’s body.

+

He is lying on the couch, absent apologies being mumbled into the phone, the director still grumbling about how they have wasted an entire day of shooting as if he didn’t keep touching himself throughout their sex scene, as if he hadn’t noticed guilty hands disappearing into tented trousers and coming back out bone white, their faces red as a blood bathed ground.

Louis hangs up halfway through his ranting.

The body holding him down is pleasurable, he likes this, being held down by someone who he loves and somehow who loved him.

He wants his heart back but he doesn’t have the words to demand it back.

Harry swallowed his heart and fled, his hands now drawing illegible shapes, carpals moving, joints twisting and turning, his hands transforming into a butterfly, a bird ready to take flight, ripples in the pond water, a river flowing.

“Harry,” he breathes like he always does, watching his lover’s face break out into a smile, his teeth too white, his gesture suddenly too American, his touch, the patterns so not him, it scares him.

It scares him that Harry has become exactly what he had, the lines blending and blurring between the character and _him_ but he laughs and the tight knot in his chest unravels because it is him.

He is not becoming Louis. He is not becoming his character.

“What,” he says the word.

He never asks, he says, he gives, he takes. He does things but they are never quiet like him. He has never been afraid like he was and is.

He closes his eyes, he is too much to look at, too much to bear, the visions of him still dance over his closed lids, each more coy than the last, playing with him like he is his favourite toy.

He tries to fit his hand between them, palm blindly patting around the black denim, the metal button with weird carvings, fingers dragging across the teeth of the zipper, skin splitting open, lowering down to touch him right _there_ where he is hot and cold, soft and hard, overwhelming and grounding.

He thinks of love, he thinks of carving the shape of his lover’s face into the leather of the couch, he thinks a lot, he thinks very quietly, he says then very quietly and Harry pretends like he hears none of it yet continues to do everything Louis wishes he would.

Even if he touches him harsher, pushes him around, makes noises that are more animal than man, his mouth forms prayers that sound like sins.

Louis opens his eyes and his hand is bone white too.

It was a perfectly fine afternoon that they have defiled with panic and mad love colouring the sharp edges.

If Louis focuses hard enough, he will find guilt colouring them and their sharp edges but he won’t.

He continues to think but he still touches himself to the shudders wrecking his lover.

The arousal, the aftermath, the art.

+

The hero always dies in the end.

His scenes are much more calmer, his mind numb, limbs moving in all the ways they need to without draining him.

He continues putting on a show, he continues widening his eyes all doe like, face open and docile, pretending like everything around him is fascinating. Louis watches it all with eyes of a child.

Harry’s body covers his in the little room. They are surrounded by props and equipment.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is shaky, air icy, words softened by his skin, his unstyled, sebum covered scalp, nails catching stray threads, fraying hems and pebbling nipples.

Louis should be the one apologising and begging for mercy but he screws his mouth shut, forces himself to accept the happiness that burns through the silver fabric of his shirt, pumped in every beat of his heart, accept every beautiful and delicate thing he gives and gives and gives.

The world is no longer so mysterious or scary when he knows how it works. He knows how everything works, everything but happiness.

“You don’t need to be,” Louis murmurs, touching his lips to his cheekbone.

It is not a matter of verse one, chorus, verse two, chorus, bridge and chorus. It has never been that way.

There is no rhyme or rhythm and it often scares him to be happy. He wills himself to be — at least for the most part, sometimes staring at his gaunt reflection, sometimes just remembering the glow in his face when he sees Harry.

Harry makes everything easier. Breathing, moving, touching, loving, _being_.

The hero always dies in the end.

Neither of them are the heroes.

+

Sleep refuses to come to him, his body is tangled with Harry’s, their breathing is in sync, fingers and ankles and thighs brushing. They are always _touching,_ god he is so sore.

His mind replays frozen fragments of them, shrouded in a blue light, faces a hazy blur, laughter staining the clouds, the sky and the stars, hands fumbling, bodies trembling under hastily thrown sheets, the sheets pearly and white and silk, each ripple of the flimsy cover reminding him of just how good they are, how good they feel when they are in motion.

Sometimes Harry cries and they are still moving, he is inside him, they are still fucking, making love, having sex or whatever and Louis feels the wetness on his skin and those are the few times where he is comfortable in himself.

When he is wet with another man’s sorrow and spit and semen. It’s cruel of him. How miserable must he be to watch Harry breakdown into tears and feel nothing but relief.

“I’m not sad,” Harry insists, thrusting in him, jaw clenched tight, teeth grinding themselves, fingers pressing bruises into his flesh.

“You’re crying,” he points out, every single time they fuck, as though they haven’t had this conversation a hundred other times.

“Because I love you and I hate that _you_ are so sad all the time, baby,” he grunts and Louis shuts his mouth.

It is scary, to be noticed and to be called out and Harry does it too carefully.

Later he prods at the marks with light touches, and the light touches him back. It is a wonderful emotion that captures him. His heart is so sore with all of his bruising love.

He does not think about everything that is wrong with him. He does not.

The sweet ache is a reminder too.

That he is real and he is there to stay. That Harry will touch him in the most vulnerable of places, he will kiss him in the most dirtiest of parts, he will have him until he absolutely cannot.

The hero dies in the end but Harry is no hero. There are no heroes in their story. There is a man who is in love with another man and the man is scared of love, to allow himself love and they are both a little fucked up but they make it through every day.

It is not the character he is immersed in who says _I need you_ and _I want you_ and _I love you._ It is him, in all of his uncomfortable flesh and bone, his tired eyes and nimble fingers, and aching limbs.

He wears no rose tinted glasses but he sure sees the world in a better light even if it is just for a while, both of them trying to erase his sorrow with their hands and bodies and mouths and touches.

Louis doesn’t need to dream to have it forever. He sees the outline of his body, illuminated by the moon’s waxy glow, and breathes in peace.


End file.
